(Because He Clearly Obviously Did)
When he looks around, he sees in shades of black and white. Peering past leaves on trees and flower buds nudging their way into full bloom, he watches people pass by, ignoring him like he does not matter. Perhaps, he thinks wryly to himself, he does not. If he did not predict the events, one route would still inevitably happen, would it not? The world would still turn and lapse into another cycle through the events of the common-folk.
This grey, young woman, that shadowy well-muscled man. In his eyes they are not even gamepieces but decorations on the board. The Fool creeps on, looking out for the main players, those who would seek to change the course of time for their own ends.
Verity, a King to be; unlikely in the Fool's opinion. Chivalry, the promised and never-received. Regal, low in the line of succession, with a name betraying his fate, but in very poor taste. When the Fool flicks his eyes over the royalty of the keep he sees muted tones, stunted reds and mouldy blues. Ageing yellows and faded greens. Even in the game, the players are but vessels for the game-pieces.
Until you have an opposite to contrast with, it is hard to realise you are lacking anything. The day the boy enters the keep, The Fool knows of it. He had seen visions in his mind, but even those hints had not prepared him for this vision in full colour. A head of dark hair, dark eyes betraying much thought for so young a child. His clothes, unimportant, for the possiblities gleaming around him were every colour imaginable. Just by existing he made the world light up with promising hue.
Chade would sigh, Verity would frown, and his face would thunder. Burrich would once have struck a warning clump about the ear, but these days his mouth would simply twist in disapproval, and his eyes would fill with apology to a King-In-Waiting he once served who could no longer hear him. Molly would weep silently, yell, throw something; always something different, but always the same deep, dark betrayal on top of betrayal that could never be erased.
Everyone demanded something different from him, and all Fitz wanted was to be his own. All they wished to do was treat him like a boy; Chade, Burrich, even Shrewd and Verity who sent him out to kill; even Molly who could reduce him to an incompetent little boy grasping for complexity beyond his reach with a few choice words. No-one wished him to make his own decisions, simply wished for him for follow orders and directions and suggestions for how his and their lives should be. But nothing was as simple as they all wanted to believe it could be.
The only one Fitz felt no demands from, no warping and moulding into what he was supposed to be towards them was, ironically, the one who used him purely for the changes his own headstrong decisions would make.
The Fool ached sometimes, in a way that was wholly human, to touch Fitz's cheek and absorb just a touch of that naivety for himself, to know just what it felt like. He would keep that selfish, impulsive little boy forever, if he only could.
It was a love as selfish as the day was long; a love that went beyond mere touch of comfort, beyond plumbing, and sharing of lives. It was a love that resonated within every fibre of his being, that joined him to another soul through threads so fine they could not be seen, so strong they could not be severed, and so long they could stretch across any distance.
It was a love built purely on his entire purpose in life. A fatal attachment to the half of him that was separate and opposite, the Changer as opposed to the Seer; the one who made things happen instead of envisioning and thinking and feeling them in hints and twitches perhaps long before. It was love that thrived on goodness, on righteousness, and all decisions no matter how wise that would lead to a brighter tomorrow.
It was all of these things, and more, beyond scope of words and imagination to conceive. And sometimes, it was a love so selfish, that The Fool could tell it really had nothing to do with any of these things at all.
It was because of love that The Fool could just walk away and leave. Not to say that he felt no pain or regret as he did so, but the love he felt out-weighed those things like a horse would out-weigh a mouse on the scales.
For years as he attempted to let Fitz live a life entirely his own in peace, uneventful, he carved out a kind of life for himself. A new name, a new profession; a court Fool had no place in Bingtown, and had become rather outdated in the Duchies also, once Shrewd had died. A new catalyst, he told himself, for Fitz would bring about no changes in such a place as he had never been or believed there to be. The Fool would find out one day that he was wrong in this assumption, but still, people of influence were there to be influenced, and that was his specialty.
For years more The Fool would wonder when their lives would intersect again, would experience events that could have stolen his life had he not clung so firmly to fate and laughed against the wind, 'it is not yet my time!' Time would tell, and he would know when that time was right.
To slip out of a newly made life is almost as easy as slipping into it. Like a set of clothes that never truly fitted, you are relieved to discard. Though after wearing them for long enough, you might have become attached, as ill-fitting as they were. The Fool promised to keep in contact, and hardened his heart to goodbyes, knowing he would soon see Fitz again.
For love he had left Fitz in peace; for love he would return. And for love, he would pray that in the end, all would be forgiven.
The most marvellous part of him, the most truly wonderful thing about him, is that he doesn't realise the amazingness of what he does. To Fitz, life is simply one decision after another; decisions have to be made, and he will make them. The Fool wishes he could show Fitz how many people around him are inching their way through life one tiny step at a time, not making any decisions at all. Not wishing to influence that which is around them in any way, positive or negative.
Fitz has seen life through many eyes; child, Bastard, Catalyst, Wolf-brother, Skill-user, nephew to the King-In-Waiting, grandson to the King. Enemy of the Pretender, Old-Blood. He may not understand facets the way The Fool knows is necessary, but each aspect of himself has made decisions in the past and set the wheels in motion. And he simply does not know what a feat this is; more superb than any tumbling trick or witty remark the Fool, or Lord Golden, has ever made in Buckkeep's court.
For all that Fitz has done and said, for all that he is and stands for, The Fool loves him for the courage he has to make changes; never knowing how special or different he is from any other man that he is able to do so.